Reunion
by thedragonaunt
Summary: They all missed him and they all wished they could see him again but they never thought they would. This series of one-shots is inspired by the Teaser Trailer to Sherlock S3. *RATING UPGRADED TO 'T' BECAUSE OF LESTRADE'S COLOURFUL COLLOQUIALISMS*
1. Chapter 1 Mrs Hudson

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Reunion**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Mrs Hudson**

Mrs Hudson was in her kitchen, washing up, when she heard the front door open and close. She'd had the other landladies round for lunch and a gossip. They took turns to host these little get-togethers, ad hoc meetings of the unofficial Marylebone Landladies' Support Group. That was something of a misnomer, in Mrs Hudson's case, since she wondered if she could still be termed a 'landlady' when her only tenant was a dead man.

The flat upstairs had been unoccupied for nearly three years, now, ever since….that day. Nowadays, it was not so much a domicile as a memorial, a temple to a fallen hero which had but one worshipper, one acolyte, who came alone every week to pay his respects. And that was the thing. Mycroft had already been this week – just a couple of days ago. So why had he just let himself in through her front door? Was it some special anniversary?

It certainly wasn't a birthday. Sherlock's birthday was in January, months ago. And neither was it the anniversary of The Fall – that was not for a few more weeks. Still, she concluded, he must have his reasons and who was she to question the motives of a man like Mycroft Holmes?

And once again she was being inaccurate. The shrine upstairs did have more than one regular visitor. Was she not the High Priestess of that particular Cult of Personality? She went there more often than she cared to admit. She probably talked to that dead man more than she did to any living soul, these days.

But Mycroft – no, he was a once a week man so why was he back again, only two days since his last visit? Not only back but….tapping on her flat door? He never knocked on her door! If he needed to communicate, he would ring or, on the odd occasion, text - but never knock. This was a day for rare exceptions.

She wiped her gloved hands on a tea towel and then removed the Marigolds and placed them on the draining board, brushing her bare hands down the front of her apron, as she walked through the sitting room, toward her flat door. She was almost there when the knock came again – more insistent, this time.

'Yes, alright, I'm coming,' she called, as she reached the door, grasped and turned the handle, and pulled the door open.

She looked up at the grey three piece suit, the pursed lips, the long, thin nose and the sharp grey-blue eyes – except they weren't. Mrs Hudson blinked and stared and blinked again, her brain not making sense of what her eyes were reporting.

'Sherlock?' she gasped, as her knees began to buckle and her head to swim.

'Yes, Mrs Hudson. Please, don't be alarmed,' he exclaimed, catching her by the upper arms, in a bid to arrest her descent to the carpet.

She was in a state of confusion and disorientation. If this was a dream, it was the most multisensory one she had ever experienced, in all her seventy-plus years. This dream had strong hands and smelt of expensive after-shave.

'Sherlock, it _is_ you,' she gasped again.

'Yes, it is. I'm sorry if I startled you,' he replied, with a self-deprecating smile.

'But how can that be?' she blethered.

'It's a very long story,' he intoned, in that deep, baritone burr that she had thought never to hear again.

'Oh, my darling boy,' she choked, as the tears began to bubble from her eyes and course down the rouged and wrinkled cheeks.

She threw her arms about his waist and pressed her face into his midriff, repeating, over and over,

'My darling boy, my darling boy.'

He enclosed her fragile frame in his long, strong arms, cupped her head in one huge hand and pressed his cheek into her fine, grey hair, as he fought to swallow down the emotion that threatened to over-whelm him, too.

ooOoo


	2. Chapter 2 Lestrade

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Reunion**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Lestrade**

The doors opened and Lesrade stepped out of the lift into the underground car park beneath New Scotland Yard. It had been a very long night and, before that, it had been a very long day. And, if memory served, it had been a very long night, even before that. In short, it had been well over thirty-six hours since he had even had so much as a sniff at 'down time'. But they had finally cracked the case, the suspects were in custody and he and the other members of the team were on their way to their respective homes, to grab a few hours' shut eye before they had to come back and do the same thing all over again.

The cast and locations may vary but the script always remained the same. Bad guys did wrong things, good guys caught them – or at least tried to. They succeeded often enough to make it worth the effort, is what he told himself, as he walked, with heavy steps, down the central aisle of the subterranean car park. It had been so long since he last parked his car that he could not remember where he'd left it but fortunately, at this hour, the car park was practically deserted. Even in the dim gloom, he could vaguely make out the silhouette of his vehicle, right at the far end of the underground facility. It had not seemed so far from the lift when he left it – but he had not been so knackered then.

He felt in his pocket and located the familiar shape of his key fob. He was about to pull the key out, point it at the car and unlock the doors, even at this distance, when a sound grabbed his attention and set the hairs on the back of his neck a-dancing. He stopped and looked around. Damn the bloody cut backs! Because of a government directive to save money on non-essentials, only the central aisle of the car park was properly illuminated. The rest of the bunker was on emergency lighting only, which cast a dim, eerie glow in the immediate vicinity of the lights but which threw the rest of the dungeon into deep shadow. It was enough to put the willies up anyone! Maybe he had imagined the noise. He turned and began to walk on but there it was again, a footfall on the reinforced concrete floor.

He stopped and scanned the dark recesses of the car park, searching his pockets for his mobile phone. If he was being stalked, he needed to be able to summon assistance. It was doubtful he would have any mobile phone reception, down here in the bowels of New Scotland Yard, but with his iPhone, he would be able to send a text via the wi-fi and that did stretch to down here. Not the most efficient way to call for help, he knew, but when push came to shove, it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. But he could not find his phone. Where the fuck have I left that? he thought to himself, then had a mental image of his phone sitting on his desk, in his office. A fat lot of good it was, there.

Standing still, listening, he could just perceive another noise. It was the sound of someone trying not to breathe loudly but the person had clearly been running and was out of breath so breathing quietly was not really an option. However, it did make it easier for Lestrade to pinpoint the position of his stalker.

He turned to measure the distance between himself and his car, then turned back and did the same calculation with relation to the position from which he believed the sound of stifled breathing had come. He then weighed up, in his mind, the likelihood of him being able to reach the car before his stalker reached him – if he decided to make a run for it. The Detective Inspector was past his prime. He had celebrated his fiftieth birthday, this last Spring, and to be frank the years had not been that kind to him. Too many fry-ups, take-aways, microwave dinners and nights out with the lads had expanded his dimensions – and not in a good way. Fitness was not really his forte.

He made a decision and moved toward one of the thick, broad pillars that supported the weight of New Scotland Yard above his head. Turning, with his back to the pillar, he looked straight at the black hole where he suspected his stalker was lurking, and drew a deep breath before bellowing, in his best policeman's voice,

'Whoever you are, show yourself. And I must warn you, I have already summoned assistance, so come out and keep your hands where I can see them!'

He paused and listened. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, a dark figure resolved itself from the gloom. It was dressed in a long, black coat so only its face showed up in contrast to the crepuscular shadow and that face was long and thin and pale. As Lestrade squinted in an effort to make out the details of the figure's features, he heard a voice speak in a deep, sepulchral tone,

'Either your texting skills have improved immeasurably in the last three years, Lestrade, or you are bluffing about the back up. Personally, I favour Option Two.'

A feeling of dread seeped up from the policeman's gut, as he gazed upon the face of someone he knew could not possibly be there. This could NOT be happening. Yes, he'd had a long shift. Yes, he was dog tired. But hallucinating a long-dead friend? This was ridiculous.

'What the fuck!' he growled then called, loudly,

'OK, you've had your fun. If this is some sort of holographic projection, then turn the bloody thing off and stop arsing about. It's not April Fool's Day and I am not in the mood for this kind of bull shit.'

'I'm not a holographic projection, Lestrade. Where ever did you get that idea? Have you been watching too much Star Trek?' the vision droned, disparagingly.

'Anderson? If this is your doing, I will have your balls for breakfast!' roared Lestrade, both angry and terrified, in equal measure.

'Anderson? Good Lord, don't make me laugh. Not unless he's grown a new brain while I've been away,' the wraith scoffed.

By this time, the phantom figure had advanced to within touching distance, and stopped. Lestrade scrutinised its visage. It certainly looked like the dead detective but the DI did not believe in ghosts so his default position was still 'hologram'. He decided to test the theory and, without a moment's hesitation, he shot out his right hand – fully expecting it to pass right through the illusion created by clever computing. To his great surprise, his fist connected forcefully with the solar plexus of the ethereal figure and stopped dead.

The face of his nemesis morphed into a look of abject alarm as the figure folded at the waist and dropt, unceremoniously, to the concrete floor, where it remained, on hands and knees, gasping and coughing, and fighting for breath.

'Sherlock? What the….Sherlock?' Lestrade almost screeched, crouching down beside the stricken man, placing a hand on his all too corporeal shoulder and accepting the impossible.

'Oh, mate! I am so sorry! I didn't mean to hit you! Oh, shit!' the concerned detective inspector gabbled. 'Just try to relax, mate. Your diaphragm is in spasm, which is why you can't breathe, but if you could just try to relax, it will sort itself out.'

As he spoke these words of advice and comfort, he rubbed the fallen man in circular strokes, between the shoulder blades. Heeding the advice, Sherlock concentrated all his effort on relaxing and rolled from his hands and knees to his side, lying on the hard, cold floor in a foetal curve, as the coughing and gasping subsided and normal breathing slowly resumed. When at last he was able to draw breath naturally, he pushed himself up to sitting and accepted Lestrade's proffered hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. The two men looked each other in the eye. Presently, Lestrade spoke.

'OK, to the best of my knowledge, you are dead,' he declared.

'That is patently not the case, Lestrade. Even a detective of your limited skills should be able to work that out,' Sherlock replied, acerbically.

'Yes, obviously.'

the DI paused for sarcastic effect, then,

'And how the fuck did you get in here? This should be the most secure car park in the country, with the possible exception of the Houses of Parliament.'

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

'I know it's been three years, Lestrade, but can you really have forgotten who I am and what I can do?' the consulting detective exclaimed.

'OK, point taken, but I'm sorry, you're going to have to cut me some slack, here. I've had a bit of a shock. A man whom I believed to be dead – I went to your bloody funeral, you know! Shit, I even bloody cried!'

Sherlock furrowed his brows.

'Did you really?'

'Yes, I fucking did, you prat!'

'Oh…..er…..thank you….I think,' the younger man replied, looking a little confused.

'So, how come….? No, never mind that, you can fill me in on the details later. What's more to the point is, does John Watson know you're alive?'

Sherlock looked awkward.

'No, not yet.'

'Why the hell not? Don't you think he deserves to be the first to know? Have you any idea what that man has been through?'

'I've been waiting for the right moment.'

'There is no such thing as the right moment, trust me. Whenever or however you decide to turn up and surprise him by – what, jumping out of a giant cake, or whatever, and yelling 'Hey! I'm alive!' the end result will be the same. He will punch your fucking lights out. And you will deserve it.'

Sherlock looked hurt.

'It hasn't been easy for me, either…'

'Don't. Even. Go. There!' intoned the DI, emphatically. He turned away from his long lost friend, in sheer frustration, and then turned back.

'And whatever possessed you to creep up on me in the bloody car park, you idiot? Why couldn't you just walk into my office and announce yourself, like a normal person would, returning from the dead?'

'Other people would have seen me,' Sherlock retorted, indignantly. 'I needed to do it in secret.'

'Well, other people will see you anyway, on the CCTV,' Lestrade indicated the camera positions, notable by the infra-red glow they emitted.

'The cameras are not being picked up by the control room. I created a loop for them to watch.'

Lestrade sighed.

'I might have guessed you would do that,' he agreed. 'So why the need for secrecy? Surely, if you're back from…wherever it is you've been for the last three years, it's because you want people to know you're really alive?'

'Not until I've told John. And you, Lestrade, must tell no-one about me until I've had the chance to tell him. I don't want him finding out from anyone else.'

Lestrade was stunned.

'That is unbelievably considerate of you, Sherlock. Did you work that out all by yourself?'

Sherlock licked his lips, looked at the ground and cocked his head on one side before giving a little shrug and muttering,

'Mrs Hudson told me I had to do it that way.'

Lestrade burst out laughing.

'Oh, thank God! For a minute there, you had me worried. I thought that someone had done something awful, like given you a personality transplant or something!'

Sherlock looked even more hurt. Lestrade took pity and clapped him on the shoulder.

'Let's face it, mate, you might have a brain the size of a small galaxy but, when it comes to common sense, you would lose out to an amoeba.'

Sherlock huffed down his aristocratic nose and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, hunching his shoulders like a sulky school girl.

'Alright, what do you want me to do?' the DI enquired.

'Nothing. Just don't tell anyone you've seen me until I tell you it's alright to do so…..please.' The 'please' was a bit of an afterthought but the fact that he said it at all spoke volumes.

'Is that it?'

'Erm….no. Would you drive me out of this car park and drop me somewhere near Baker Street? I'm feeling a bit nauseous, since you punched me in the stomach and I'd rather like to go home.'

'You and me, both, you dick head,' Lestrade gave him a shove in the shoulder. 'Alright, come on – but you'll have to lie down on the back seat, til we get past Security. And don't look like that! Just be glad I'm not making you get in the boot!'

ooOoo


	3. Chapter 3 Mycroft

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**This one's for you, sis. Sleep in peace.**

**Reunion**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Mycroft**

It was Friday night – correction, it was Saturday morning – and Mycroft Holmes was at home, in his study, working. He had instructed Andrew, his butler cum valet, to lock up the house and retire. It would be some time before he would see his own bed. He had a large number of papers to get through, in preparation for his meeting with the COBR committee, first thing on Monday morning.

He had thought about staying in town for the weekend, at his flat in Cadogan Square, since he had so much reading to do and it was unlikely he would find any time in which to deal with the estate business that was so pressing, but when he stayed in town over the weekend, he never really felt he had had a weekend, at all. The temptation to go into the office was too powerful when he stayed in town.

So he had lugged half a rainforest's worth, of the most dry, uninspiring literature ever penned, to his family's ancestral home – his home – and would spend the better part of the next two days ploughing his way through it, making mental notes, and the occasional written one, formulating a proposal, in order to be in a position to advise the COBR committee on this latest international security red alert. But work was good. Work was fine. Work helped to keep his mind busy, leaving less time for thought.

The third anniversary was fast approaching. Three years. Was it really so long? Sometimes it felt like a century, other times it was only yesterday.

When someone dies, there are always regrets – things one did or did not say, things one should or should not have done. Those left behind carried that burden and could only hope to find it in their hearts to forgive themselves. For how could they expect the dead to forgive them if they could not achieve self-absolution? He would never find that peace, nor did he deserve to. He was his own judge and jury and the verdict was and always would be Guilty As Charged. Bad enough to lose a brother, one's last remaining blood relative, but to lose him in such a manner and with the full knowledge that it was entirely your fault - there was no redemption for such a crime.

He paused for a moment, in his reverie, arched and stretched his back and shoulders, then settled once more into his desk chair, returning his attention to the document in his left hand. The mantle clock chimed the hour, softly. Two a.m. He would read one more report and call it a day.

Then the door to his study, suddenly, slowly, began to open and he looked up, not alarmed but curious to know which of his staff was still up and about at this ungodly hour and who would have the temerity to enter his inner sanctum without knocking.

As the door was pushed back, a figure appeared in silhouette against the light from the passageway. Mycroft continued to stare – confused, disorientated, dumbfounded – at the familiar shape that presented itself in the bright rectangle of the door frame. He felt his skin grow cold and his pulse begin to race, his heart beat pounding in his head, a rushing sound in his ears, a pain in his chest. His face was a frozen mask of astonishment, his eyes round and staring, his mouth an echo of that same shape. His breath caught in his throat and he uttered a small, choking gasp.

In an eye blink, the vision was by his side, crouching on the floor, grasping his arm and saying his name.

'Mycroft! It's me! I'm real. I'm alive.'

Then the deep black hole opened up and swallowed him.

ooOoo

He opened his eyes, slowly, and became aware of the rough texture of the Indian rug against his cheek. In his line of sight, he perceived the bottom of one pedestal of his kneehole desk and the legs of his mahogany frame Chippendale Elbow chair. From this, he deduced that he must be lying on the floor in his study.

As awareness increased, gradually, he could feel a weight on his shoulder and something pressed to the pulse point, under his jaw. He blinked and then moved his hand up to his neck, to find out what that was. He touched a warm hand and, as he did so, the hand grasped his own and the weight from his shoulder disappeared, as he felt another hand on the back of his neck, cupping the base of his skull. He rolled onto his back and looked up into the pale, drawn face of his brother.

'Good Lord, Mycroft, did you have to do that? You scared me almost to death!' Sherlock exclaimed.

Mycroft's mouth felt dry and he found he could not speak, since his tongue was adhering to the roof of his mouth. He waved his free hand towards the desk and rasped the word,

'Water.'

Sherlock looked to where he was pointing then jumped up, from kneeling beside his stricken brother, only to return a moment later with a glass of water, retrieved from the desk top. He helped the older man to sit up, then assisted him to take a sip or two from the cut crystal tumbler.

Mycroft was suddenly aware of the indignity of his current situation, sitting on the floor in his study, and he made to rise. Sherlock placed a hand under his elbow and assisted him up from the rug and over to one of the two leather wing chairs, positioned either side of the lifeless fireplace. Once seated in this more acceptable position, Mycroft was able to look properly, for the first time since this bizarre episode began, at the all too living face of his long dead brother.

The shock that had precipitated his temporary loss of consciousness threatened to overpower him again but a voice of reason was reasserting itself inside his head. This was his brother. His brother was here. Therefore, contrary to popular belief, his brother was not and had not been dead, these three years past. And as the dawn of realisation spread from his brain to his heart, he felt that organ swell within his chest and push an enormous sob of anguish and relief up through his throat and out of his mouth, as he reached with both hands and pulled his brother to him.

Words would come later – questions, explanations, recriminations, exhortations – but for now, the brothers simply held one another and surrendered to their emotions.

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 4 Molly

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**I know Mofftiss won't do it like this, but I can still dream.**

**Reunion**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Molly**

Molly Hooper logged off her PC, tidied her work station, stood, stretched and pushed her chair under her desk. Another graveyard shift done and dusted. Molly didn't mind working nights. She had always been a bit of an owl, never a lark. She did all her best thinking at night. In general, the night shifts were not so busy as the days. This concept seemed a little counter-intuitive. Everyone knows that more people tend to die in the early hours of the morning than at any other time of day – but these were natural deaths. Natural deaths rarely troubled a pathologist.

It was the sudden, violent, unexpected, unexplained deaths that were her bread and butter and, even when they occurred in the night time, they were frequently not discovered until the day so they were rarely brought into the mortuary on her shift.

So Molly spent her night shifts carrying out blood tests, urine tests, paternity tests. She performed dissections, prepared specimens, created slides, wrote reports, carried out research and did the filing. And if the occasional body happened to turn up – with a request for an urgent post mortem – it was a welcome sight, a break from routine, something to get her teeth into.

People often asked her how working permanent nights affected her social life. Not at all, she would reply. For the simple reason that she didn't have a social life, had never had a social life, never would have a social life. She was an attractive woman and quite a few young men had made approaches to her – invitations to coffee, a drink at the local pub, a meal, a trip to the cinema. Molly would always smile, say thank you but sorry, no, I can't.

This reticence to engage in social intercourse with attractive young men had led some to speculate that she might be gay and had led to a number of young women making approaches of a romantic nature. She had smiled and said thank you, told them she was flattered by their interest but she was not able to accept.

Her colleagues and acquaintances then concluded that Molly was already in a relationship, of one sort or another which, for some reason, she did not want to disclose. This was perhaps the closest to the truth. Molly was in a long term, permanent, committed relationship – with a dead man.

Of course, Molly knew – was in deed the only person who did know – that the dead man in question was not actually dead. She knew this because she had helped the man to fake his own death, in order to save his closest friends from the bullets of assassins - hit men - set upon them by a madman who wanted to destroy the man who was not dead.

She had helped him to fake his death, she had signed his death certificate and she had hidden him in her home until such times as he could arrange his own disappearance. He had left her home, in the dead of night, nearly three years before, and she had not seen or heard from him since.

Molly did not know if she ever would see him again. The longer he stayed hidden, lost, the more she thought she should move on with her life, get a life, live her life. But that was so much easier to say than to do. How could she move on when her every waking thought revolved around a living dead man who happened to be the love of her life?

From the very first moment she had set eyes upon Sherlock Holmes, almost ten years previously, Molly had been utterly, completely, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him. He had known she loved him. He was confused and disturbed by this fact and he did little to encourage her in her devotion – although he did exploit it from time to time, to gain access to bodies or certain lab facilities – but he generally held her at arm's length and was often blatantly rude.

Molly had come to terms with the fact that there was no possibility of ever having an intimate relationship with Sherlock Holmes. That made no difference to the feelings she had for him. Even though unrequited, her love was constant, enduring, and pure. But just as she had reconciled herself to that fact, he came to her for help. He told her that she counted, that she had always counted and that he had always trusted her. And that he needed her. He. Needed, Her.

Of all the people he could have asked, he had asked her to help him carry out his fake suicide. He had outlined his plan, told her what to do and she had carried out his instructions to the letter. She had lied for him, to all their mutual friends, to the whole world. She had put her career on the line and her life on hold. She had done it all for him, whom she loved more than life itself. She would do anything for him. If he came back tonight and asked her to do it all over again, she would.

Molly walked from the lab, switching off the lights as she left, continued along the neon-lit corridor, to the staff locker room, to hang up her white lab coat, and collect her coat and bag. She would go home to her quiet, deserted flat, to a solitary breakfast, a lonely bed.

She walked up to her locker, fished the key from her lab coat pocket, fitted it into the lock and opened the door. As it swung open, the mirror on the inside panel caught the fleeting reflection of a dark figure, standing in the shadows on the far side of the room. With her back to the figure, she was oblivious to his presence. She was tired. She was focussed on home. She was so intent on retrieving her coat and bag from the recesses of the locker, she did not notice the subtle sound of his breathing, as he moved slowly, stealthily, silently toward her.

Then, when he was barely an arm's reach from where she stood, the man stopped. And spoke,

'Molly.'

The effect on her was electric. She whipped around so fast, she lost her balance and toppled backwards, crashing toward the gaping maw of her locker. With lightening reflexes, his hands shot out and caught her by the waist, pulling her upright, saving her fall. Her hands landed, reflexively, on his chest and she looked up into his eyes.

'Sherlock!' she gasped. 'You're back! I mean….Are you back? No…I mean…. Obviously, you are back. I mean….will you be….do you…..have you….?'

A slow, gentle smile spread across his face, moved up to his eyes, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. Sliding one hand around her waist, he placed the fingers of the other against her lips to still the torrent of fragmented phrases. He brushed those finger tips across her cheek and round to the nape of her neck, as he leaned in and captured her lips with his own.

No further words were necessary.

ooOoo


	5. Chapter 5 John

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Reunion**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**John**

John Watson took a large gulp of his ridiculously expensive wine, to calm his nerves and provide some Dutch courage. Tonight was The Night. He had bought the ring, worn the suit, booked the restaurant. This was Mary's favourite restaurant. He'd only been here once before – to celebrate the first anniversary of the day they met. He really could not afford to come here for anything but very special occasions since a starter cost the equivalent of a week's wages and this bottle of wine, that he was guzzling far too fast, had a price tag that matched the GDP of a small developing country. But he wanted this night to be special because, tonight, he was going to ask Mary to agree to become his wife.

As he sat, now sipping his wine – feeling much calmer, with a faint hum of alcohol in his brain – he reflected on the last three years and marvelled over how much his life had changed. After The Fall, he had gone completely to pieces. It was the guilt that did it. He felt so bad for deserting his closest, dearest, most precious friend in his hour of need, lured away by Moriarty's fake phone call, rushing off on a wild goose chase, parting on such bad terms. What had he called him? A machine? What would he not give to be able to take back that comment?

And then, when he realised the subterfuge and rushed back, he was too late. His friend's mind was made up. And nothing he could say could prevent him from hurling himself off the roof of St Bart's Hospital. He could only stand and watch him hurtle to the ground, like a stricken bird, arms and legs flailing, coat flapping in the up-draught. John squeezed his eyes closed, even now, unable to get that stark image out of his brain.

That was the problem. He had forgotten the sound of his friend's voice. He even found it hard, now, to recall the image of his face, but the vision of him plummeting from that roof top would stay with John until his dying day. And had it not been for Mary, that day might already have come.

Everyone had been concerned. All his friends – their friends – had done everything they could to support him, even though they were grieving too. Mrs Hudson had been an absolute angel, cooking him meals, making sure he ate them, not allowing him to sit and brood alone. Greg Lestrade had been very solicitous. He felt guilty, too, though the false arrest, on a spurious charge of kidnap, was not of his choosing.

He had called round no end of times, invited John out to the pub, to the pictures, to the lap dancing club. Molly Hooper, whom he knew had loved the man at least as much as he did, had left message after message – none of which he had returned. Mike Stamford, his oldest friend and the man who had introduced them in the first place, had bullied him into going out and put up with his sullen silences, talking enough for both of them. The problem was, all these people just reminded him too much of the one who was no longer there.

But Mary had saved his sanity and his life. She was fresh and new and had never even heard of Sherlock Holmes. She came into his life when he was at his lowest ebb and rescued him from his own melancholy. She was warm and bright and funny. She was charming and flirty and sweet. And, when their eyes met, across that crowded room – cliché though it was – there had been such a powerful mutual attraction, it really felt like a lightning strike. He was so grateful to Mike Stamford for dragging him to that party, despite him having used every excuse in the book, to wriggle out of going.

And now, nearly two years on, he was going to propose. He was fairly confident that she would accept. They had talked about marriage and Mary must appreciate that they would not be dining at this restaurant unless there was something special on the cards. John glanced at his watch. She wasn't late. He was early. He had arrived early on purpose, to give himself time to relax, to rehearse his proposal in his head and to make sure that everything was arranged perfectly. He didn't want anything to go wrong.

He took another gulp of wine – yes, he was back to gulping. He reminded himself to sip. From the corner of his ear, he heard the double doors open but the person who entered was a tall man, not his sweet, petite, dainty Mary. He paid the man no mind. He was deep in thought again, rehearsing his lines, practicing his moves, checking that he had left nothing to chance. The new arrival was crossing the floor. There was something vaguely familiar in his height, his gait, his shape. A shadow slid across the table, as the man approached and stopped right in front of him. And just stood there, staring at him.

John glanced up, wondering what this person wanted and hoping he would go away before Mary arrived. He needed it all to be perfect.

'Before you ask, no, I'm sorry, I won't give up this table. I booked it weeks ago and specifically asked for this spot,' John declared, as he looked up into the man's face.

'What the fuck?' he yelped, pushing back his seat, which tipped over backwards, as he jumped to his feet.

The man held up two placatory hands and said,

'John, I'm sorry. Please, don't be alarmed.'

John stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, his brain whirring, trying to reconcile his sure and certain knowledge that this man was dead with the undeniable fact that he was standing right in front of him.

'I'm not dead, John. I didn't die. I'm alive,' Sherlock enunciated, slowly, clearly, emphasising each word with a movement of his hands.

John Watson's heart rate, which had escalated dramatically, began to steady and his breathing was returning to normal but his eyes still stared in disbelief. He reached out over the table and placed a trembling hand on the other man's arm. It was solid, it was warm, it was most definitely alive.

'You fucking bastard. What the fuck is this?'

'John?'

Unbeknown to John, Mary had entered the restaurant and was now standing next to the table, between him and his resurrected former best friend. He turned and looked blankly at his future bride, his face a map of confusion.

'Mary? Mary! Oh, thank God you're here!' he gasped, grasping her hand and clinging to it, like a drowning man. Mary moved quickly to put John's chair upright and then urged him to sit down since he looked as though he might fall down at any moment. She then turned to Sherlock and gave him an appraising look.

'And who are you?' she asked, in a curious tone.

'This, Mary, is Sherlock Holmes, my dead friend, who it would appear is not dead after all.'

Mary looked from John to Sherlock and back to John again, as she processed that most unlikely of statements.

'We need to talk, John, please,' Sherlock said and shot an irritated glance at Mary.

'Too bloody right, we do! I'm just dying to know – if you'll pardon the pun – what could possibly be so important as to justify you disappearing off the face of the earth for three whole years and letting me and all your other friends – and family - believe, all that time, that you were dead!'

'John, have a sip of water, darling. And just try to calm down,' Mary urged, stroking his hand, with concern.

Sherlock breathed in, rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh then turned to Mary and said,

'Would you mind? I really need to speak to my friend and I would greatly appreciate it if you would go away.'

Mary looked at him, with a strange smile on her face, both shocked and amused by his extreme rudeness. John, however, reacted very differently. Jumping once more to his feet, he drew back his right shoulder, bunched his fist and threw a roundhouse punch right at the other man's face, catching him square on the nose.

Sherlock staggered back and crashed into the table behind, upsetting all the silver cutlery and lead crystal glasses with which the table was set. At that point, mayhem ensued. Waiters rushed forward, the manager came out, other guests complained, Sherlock staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his nose and Mary put a restraining hand on John's arm.

After a short but heated debate, during which John swore a lot – mostly at Sherlock – Mary apologised profusely to the restaurant manager and the other patrons and Sherlock declared that he would pay for any damage, the three were asked to leave the premises.

John grasped Mary's hand and stalked out, as Sherlock handed his credit card to the manager and followed John and Mary through the door. Once outside, John rounded on his ex-friend and uttered another string of expletives, the gist of which was, if the damn dickhead ever spoke to his future wife in that manner again, he would give him more than just a bloody nose. Then he turned and marched off, down the road. Mary reached into her clutch bag and withdrew a clean tissue, which she handed to Sherlock, to stem the crimson flow that was still pouring freely down his face and dripping from his chin. He took it, gratefully.

'Well, Mr Holmes, it's a delight to meet you, though rather unexpected. I'm Mary.' She offered her hand, which he took and shook, politely.

'Your timing is impeccable. I think he was planning to propose to me tonight. You have really put your foot in it, I'm afraid.'

Sherlock did not know what to say. He stood with his head tilted back, holding the tissue to his nose and looking like a kicked puppy.

'Mary!' John called, impatiently.

'Oh, well, gotta go,' she shrugged, giving the dejected detective a sympathetic smile. Just as she turned to follow her future husband, Sherlock asked,

'Do you think he'll ever forgive me?'

She pursed her lips and pondered the question for a moment.

'He loves you. Just give him time,' she replied then turned and walked away.

Sherlock stood in the restaurant doorway for a moment or two, debating whether or not to go back in, settle the bill and retrieve his credit card but deciding that would keep until tomorrow. Things had not gone at all how he had hoped they would and he wasn't really sure why but, with nothing more to be done, he turned and walked off, slowly, down the road.

ooOoo


End file.
